


it compels you forward (like a slave beneath a master's cruel hand)

by iisrafel



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Babyhound, Bloodhound Headcanons (Apex Legends), Bloodhound Name, a theory on bh's ultimate, bloodhound's mama, respawn gave us bh lore but not the lore i wanted, specifically is the lore i wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iisrafel/pseuds/iisrafel
Summary: Bryn frowns down at their hands, chewing on their lip. They don’t see anything except the trail. A broken twig here, a dislodged pebble there. “I don’t see it, mama.”She sighs, laughter in her voice. “You are not looking.”“I am!”“Bryn,” she says, smiling at them. Her eyes are rimmed with red light, her hands are warm, her breath is smoke in the air. “Little bird,” she croons. “How does a prowler see its prey?”
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47





	it compels you forward (like a slave beneath a master's cruel hand)

Their mother wakes them with the gentle press of cool fingers to their forehead and a quiet laugh that chases the darkness away from the edges of the bed.

“Little one,” she sings, softly, brushing the hair from their eyes as they try to blink the sleep away. “Little bird, little Bryn, do you know what day it is?” She tugs on their blankets with a smile. “The thaw has come and the prowlers are waking.”

“ _Klifrið_?” Bryn asks, voice thick and groggy with sleep, pushing up from their pillows. The sun has not yet begun to rise - frost still clings to the windows. “Hunter’s Climb is today?”

Their mother smiles. “Yes, _breyting_ , and today you will join us.”

Bryn frowns, and burrows deeper under their blankets. “It’s cold,” they whine. Their mother laughs.

“Come,” she says, pulling them up and out of bed. “I will teach you how to track.”

“Patience, Bryn,” their mother says a few meters up the trail. 

Bryn huffs crossing their arms to guard against the wind. “I don’t see the tracks,” they say, kicking at the frost covered ground, dislodging a few pebbles. “I’m _cold_.” 

Their mother is warm when she crouches in front of them. The heat rolls off of her in waves. The frost melts under her hands as she steadies herself. She straightens their coat and pulls on their hat. “You have a fire in your bones, same as me, little one. There is no need to be cold.”

“I don’t know how to use it,” they pout.

She smiles. “Watch, and learn,” she says, closing her eyes. She takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. When she opens her eyes, they are rimmed with red like embers in a hearth. “A fire is a fire,” she murmurs, breath steaming out of her mouth and curling around her words. “You have to let it breathe.” 

They mimic her, sucking in a breath and filling their lungs, holding it there until it burns. When they release it, sparks shoot out of their mouth and their heart aches and it is painful but they are warm. The frost around them has melted from the trail in a perfect little ring.

“Easy, _breyting_ ,” their mother chides with laughter in her voice. “We don’t want any wildfires.” She takes their hands in her own and presses them to the earth. “Now look again.”

Bryn frowns down at their hands, chewing on their lip. They don’t see anything except the trail. A broken twig here, a dislodged pebble there. “I don’t see it, mama.” 

She sighs, laughter in her voice. “You are not looking.”

“I am!” 

“Bryn,” she says, smiling at them. Her eyes are rimmed with red light, her hands are warm, her breath is smoke in the air. “Little bird,” she croons. “How does a prowler see its prey?”

“It sees the blood,” they say. “The warmth.”

Their mother nods and her smile is sharp. Her eyes are blood-red. “We are the same,” she says. “Beasts of the hunt.” 

There are other hunters gathered at the top of the Mountain. Some are already kneeling in prayer. Others sit around scattered fires, talking and laughing and singing.

“Uncle Artur!” Bryn shouts when they see him, as tall as the Mountain with a raven on his shoulder. They rush over and fling their arms around one of his legs. 

“ _Jæja_!” Uncle Artur scoops them up with one arm and grins over at their mother. “Johann said you did not think you would make the Climb this year.”

“I am teaching them to hunt,” their mother says, hands on her hips. “You are well?”

“Well enough,” Uncle Artur says. His raven pecks gently at Bryn’s ear. “Would be better if Talos were left alone.”

Their mother frowns. “Artur,” she says. Her voice is stern, like when Bryn is too busy hunting for goblins in their garden to come inside for supper. “We’ve done all that we can. You know this.”

Uncle Artur sighs and his arms tighten around Bryn. He looks at them, a small, soft smile half hidden by his beard. “You are learning to be a hunter today?”

They nod, excitedly, pulling out the small dagger their mother let them tuck into their belt. “I will _slatra_!” 

“Oh,” Uncle Artur seems impressed. He looks back at their mother. “And has this mighty hunter received their name yet?”

“I have a name,” Bryn says, clutching the dagger to their chest. Uncle Artur’s raven preens their hair and it tickles. 

Uncle Artur chuckles. “But do you have a hunter’s name?” He sets them down, gently, ruffling their hair before he rises back to his full height. “All great hunters have a name, given to them by the gods.” 

Bryn casts a doubtful look at their mother. “Do you have a hunter’s name?”

She frowns at them. “It is behind me. I am a mother now. Not a hunter.” She shoots Uncle Artur a glare, holding out her hand to Bryn. “Come. We must go to the summit to complete the Climb.”

The top of the Mountain is frigid and the wind whips across their face, pulling on their coat and hair. Their fingers and toes are numb and they are not quite sure why anyone would want to climb to the top of a mountain just to talk to the Allfather.

Further up the peak the Mountain spews fire, sparks and smoke and liquid earth, glowing white and orange and gold - only visible to those who make the Climb.

“Can the Allfather not hear us down there?” Bryn asks, shivering where they stand at the edge of the mountain’s face, peering down to the gathering of hunters below. 

Their mother laughs, as she has done many times today, sparks flying from her mouth. “Of course he can,” she says. “This is about the intention.”

Bryn frowns. “I do not understand.” 

She squats, again, in front of them. “It has taken great effort to get here, no? We do not have to make the Climb to ask the Allfather for good hunting.” She tilts her head. “We could ask from the hearth!”

“Or our beds,” Bryn supplies. “Where it’s warm.”

“ _Já_ , little bird,” she smiles. “Allfather would hear us just the same from there. But then this Climb and our prayers here and now - they are much more powerful, yes? Knowing we did not have to suffer, but chose to do so for the Allfather?” She brushes the hair from their eyes. “I think this makes the Allfather happy.”

Bryn laughs. “So happy he spits fire? Like the Mountain!”

Their mother joins them. “Yes, little one.”

It is only a few months later when World’s Edge is destroyed and Talos is abandoned and frost consumes their home. 

“Come, little one,” Uncle Artur says, gentle but firm. His raven hops on the ground at Bryn’s feet. “I promised your mother we would make the Climb.”

“I don’t want to,” Bryn says, tears burning at the corners of their eyes. When they close their eyes, they see their father running home, towers and spikes of ice chasing him. In their dreams they hear their mother calling out his name. 

Uncle Artur sighs wearily. “You wish to be a hunter?”

Bryn glares up at him. “Yes.”

“Then we make the Climb,” he nods, as if the matter is settled, and continues up the trail.

“ _Blóðhundur_ ,” Uncle Artur says, suddenly, pausing in his work. Bryn pokes at the fire before them and pretends not to listen. “Your mother was the best tracker of our tribe. She would ask the Allfather to give her sight and he would. We all have the gift of fire in our bones, but your mother had it more than most.”

Bryn bites their lip. Their heart aches.

“Her eyes would become red,” Uncle Artur continues, waving his dagger in the air. “Like the prowlers. And she could see her prey wherever it went. That is why she was called _Blóðhundur_.” 

Bryn stares into the fire. “She taught me how to see like that.”

Uncle Artur nods, humming to himself, and continues his work, tearing leather into thin strips and braiding it into armor. “It is a good hunter’s name,” he says slowly. “Perhaps it is also yours.” 

When Uncle Artur’s raven lands on the coolant pipe, Bryn knows what they have to do and dread fills their stomach. The goliath charges down the hall as they throw the axe.

The air freezes instantly, locking in their lungs. The goliath screams as it crystallizes and Bryn can feel the same thing happening to them. They stumble forward, hand reaching out shakily for the respirator, knowing it will do little good if they cannot stop the frost from seeping into their bones. 

Their heart aches and their legs are heavy and breathing feels like a thousand knives in their chest. 

“A fire is a fire,” they hear their mother say as their fingers close around the respirator. “You have to let it breathe.”

They push the air out of their lungs, steam billowing out of their mouth. They breath in, respirator rattling dangerously, fire filling their belly. Their eyes burn, their throat stings.

They turn to look at the goliath, now frozen solid, red eyes gleaming out from underneath the sheets of glassy ice. 

“I am _Blóðhundur_ ,” they say, pulling the axe free from the metal pipe and turning it in their hands. “ _I am the hunter the gods have sent_.”

**Author's Note:**

> bloodhound apex legends i have feelings 4 u


End file.
